"It is too beautiful a day to die," returned the old miser, looking around him at the green grass and flowers and golden sunshine.
The park was crowded. There were throngs on foot, throngs in carriages. Beautiful women were plenty, but none of them could compare with the young girl standing there in the dust of their carriage-wheels talking to the old miser.
"Look at those handsome creatures in their magnificent carriages with liveried servants—look at their silks and jewels. Do you not envy them?" demanded Farnham. "You are more beautiful than they are. It is very foolish of you to drown yourself for lack of bread when I offer you wealth and splendor as my wife."
"But I could not love you. You are old—hideous—and I could not marry any one I did not love; I would rather die."
A fierce gleam came into the old man's eyes.
"You are the proudest pauper I ever saw, yet your very scorn makes you seem more desirable in my eyes," he exclaimed. "Come, give your consent to marry me, and you shall have one of the finest homes in New York—carriages, jewels, Paris dresses, opera-boxes, and an adoring husband. Would you not like all this?"
"All but the husband!" answered the girl frankly and sadly. "Oh, forgive me, sir, but your wealth would not make me happy if I had to live by your side."
"Yet you said just now that you would sell your soul to Satan for a chest of gold."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"I—I spoke thoughtlessly, sir. I did not think that Satan would hear me," she murmured in an undertone.